


all that's in between

by radneto



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebels
Genre: Bad Poetry, Excessive use of poetry, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, kind of ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-22
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28237605
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/radneto/pseuds/radneto
Summary: the increments in between and the aftermath.
Relationships: Alexsandr Kallus/Garazeb "Zeb" Orrelios
Comments: 13
Kudos: 44





	all that's in between

**Author's Note:**

> this MONSTER has been sitting in my drafts for SIX MONTHS.  
> finally found the brain to finish this. it's my first kalluzeb fic and honestly i don't even know what the plot was supposed to be so have whatever this is. it's unbeta'd and not at all proofread bc fuck that. have fun.  
> thank you to elletcjh and others for encouraging me to continue writing this :)

The icy wind of Bahryn cut his skin like a blade, sharp but unscarring. The blizzard howled into vast nothingness, echoing off walls of rock and ice endlessly. The tips of his fingers and ears numbed by the chilly air and he longed for the comfort of earmuffs and thicker gloves to shield him from this infinite winter. Kallus held the glowing meteorite closer to his chest, vaguely feeling its heat through his cheap Imperial gloves and hard armor. It sang to him a warm song, muffled by the heavy metal seated on his chest now covered with a thin layer of frost. He shivered, watching his breath turn to foggy vapor in front of him. He felt the eyes of his enemy glance at him occasionally as those massive purple claws worked on transmitting a signal through the nearly busted transponder.

Now that was something he should contemplate. Was he really his enemy? Did he still feel that fiery desire to destroy him and his rebellion? He watched the Lasat tinker with the device that appeared comically small in his enormous claws, his tongue poking out of his mouth in concentration. Perhaps he could admit that their shared animosity was buried within the ice cave beneath them.

Kallus rubbed at his arms as he turned his head up at the sky, staring at Geonosis floating above them. Lifeless. Empty. What did he not know about the Empire? What secrets did they have to hide? He hid those traitorous thoughts away. He should not start questioning his loyalties. Not now.

Beside him, he felt the Lasat move closer, his large body emitting a steady heat beneath all that fur. He thought perhaps he should move away from him. It wouldn’t be good to get too friendly with a rebel. But his warmth—it was nice to be close to. He was far warmer than the meteorite. Eventually, his body was starting to feel sluggish. And though he knew it wasn’t safe to fall asleep in this blizzard, he somehow knew, deep down, that the Lasat wouldn’t let him sleep longer than he needed to.

The snow was raining harsh on their shelter and Kallus fixated on the barrage of white flakes, trying hard to keep himself awake. There was no snow on Coruscant and winters on Lothal were mildly frosty at most. But while he was no stranger to the drift of icy powder, he would not dare to consider himself a friend.

“ _ ‘But angel like, when I awoke, Thy silvery form, so soft and fair,’ _ ” he found himself muttering, an old quatrain coming to mind amidst his fog of nostalgia. “ _ ‘Shining through darkness, sweetly spoke Of cloudy skies and mountains bare.’ _ ”

Then the Lasat turned to him with a confused expression, his ears twitching. Kallus glanced back at him, equally perplexed, until he realized he’d said all of that out loud.

“It’s a quote from a poem,” he elaborated, cheeks rosy from the cold and his slight embarrassment at being caught.

The Lasat (at this point he thought his internal dialogue should be addressing him as Garazeb as that was, in fact, his name,) gave a short huff, a white cloud shooting from his lips. “I don’t know much about poetry.”

This surprised Kallus. He turned towards him slightly. “I expected you to know at least a little, since so many poets are known rebel sympathizers. Many talented writers have been banned because of this.”

“Nah, I’m not much of a poetry person. I read, but stuff with all those fancy words and metaphors are too confusing for me,” Garazeb confessed.

Kallus stared, his interest piqued. “Well, what  _ do _ you read?”

“For leisure? Mostly old Jedi stories, hilariously bad romance holonovels, or anything even mildly entertaining.”

“If you like cliches, there are poets who can write ridiculously corny ballads and sonnets. Perhaps you’d enjoy something like that.”

The Lasat gave a hum of consideration, looking out into the storm. “Do you know any?”

Kallus didn’t expect him to ask for an example, but he racked his brain to think of one. “ _ ‘Take,’ _ ” he began.

_ O take those lips away  _

_ That so sweetly were forsworn, _

_ And take those eyes, the break of day, _

_ Lights that do mislead the morn: _

_ But my kisses bring again, _

_ Bring again— _

_ Seals of love, but seal’d in vain, _

_ Seal’d in vain! _

As he recited the poem, Garazeb had turned to watch him, his green eyes regarding him with an unreadable emotion and Kallus felt himself grow warm under his stare. What was he thinking, reciting such an intimate piece of prose with the Lasat? He averted his gaze quickly, hugging the meteorite close again and telling himself that his cheeks were only warm because of the rock.

“That was by another one of those rebel playwrights. His performances have been outlawed by the Empire for their strong political messages,” he explained.

Garazeb continued to stare at him, his expression now one of curiosity. “You sure read a lot of rebel stuff for an Imp.”

“It’s purely for educational purposes,” he said defensively. “What is a better way to know your enemy than by reading and analyzing the words meant to inspire them? But I will admit that Imperial poets are rather bland compared to the expressionistic writings of rebels.”

“I would’ve expected someone as stuck-up as you to write off stuff like this as plain propaganda and call it a day,” Garazeb scoffed. “Never pegged you as a literary connoisseur.”

“There’s a lot you don’t know about me, Lasat. Not everyone is as expressive as you.”

“Oh? So you think you know  _ me _ then?”

“I know enough.”

“You don’t know anything.”

Then there was silence between them, the only sound was the wind of the storm bearing down on their small shelter. Kallus felt cold again, and it wasn’t just because of the weather. What was the correct way to fix this? He... felt regret for what he said. He felt a lot of regret for a lot of things he’s done, but in this moment, he was especially sorry. He kept glancing at Garazeb who had completely turned away from him now, his broad back facing him like a durasteel wall.

He hesitated. “I... I didn’t mean to say... I didn’t mean to act like I know you. You’re right, I don’t know anything,” it was the closest he could get to an apology. “I’m not good at this... talking to people like...”

“Like a friend?” Garazeb finished for him. “Yeah, I noticed. I’m guessing the Imperial Academy didn’t teach you much about socializing.”

“It was mostly discouraged,” he commented automatically.

The Lasat’s ears flattened a little, a mix of surprise and sympathy in his expression. “I was joking,” he said. “Is the Empire really that lonely?”

Kallus pursed his lips. “‘Lonely’ is a subjective term,” he said defensively.

For that he received an exasperated eye roll. “Right, if you can name more than two friends you have right now, I’ll let it go.”

Kallus immediately opened his mouth, ready to defend himself. But he found that he couldn’t.

Despite what he said, Garazeb didn’t gloat in his victory. He gave a lopsided smile in reassurance. “I know what it’s like to be alone,” the Lasat began. “Before the Ghost picked me up, I only had myself to rely on. So I get it, yeah?”

Kallus knew that “before the Ghost” meant “after Lasan,” just another thing to add to his list of regrets. The wind of the blizzard filled the silence that fell between them. He never expected he’d end up in a situation like this, talking to someone about something other than battle plans and procedures. He’d say it was a pleasant experience if not for the conflict that weighed heavily on his mind and heart, his doubts growing about the Empire and all he thought he’d stood for. Pushing aside his inner crisis, he felt that he was grateful for Garazeb, glad that of all people he’d been stuck with it was this Lasat who fought resiliently and with honor. And that honor is what kept him alive in that cave.

“Thank you,” Kallus said softly.

Garazeb merely stared at him. “For what?”

“For trusting me. Or at least trusting me enough to hear out my plan to get us out of there. And for not, well, killing me.”

There was a pause as the Lasat took in his words, his confusion shifting to surprise to something else he could not name. “Yeah, well,” Garazeb started, his smile returning. “You could’ve easily left me for dead down there, but you didn’t, so thanks.”

A warmth spread through his chest and this time he could not blame it on the meteorite. His lips curled slightly, attempting a small smile in response to the Lasat. Perhaps this was what it was like to have a friend.

-

A few months had passed since that fateful day on Bahryn. In those months he had conducted his own personal investigation of the Empire, of what happened on Geonosis. Garazeb was right. All of those secrets, the things they were hiding... from what he could find he knew that it wasn’t good. After that he had a period of crisis. He was carrying out these horrendous acts for an unjust government, a fact he felt he knew all this time but never wanted to admit. It made him sick, thinking about it. Now that he’s seen it, he could no longer look away, it consumed his every thought like a parasite of guilt and regret.

During those nights as he laid in his bed, he’d often think back to the ice moon. The loneliness of the Empire was much more obvious now after Garazeb’s generous show of camaraderie, most of the time he’d find himself missing the Lasat. Of course he’d also ignore those feelings any time they decided to bubble to the surface. However, looking back on those memories gave him something he never had before, and that was hope. He remembered reading somewhere that hope was the foundation for a rebellion. But could he do it? Could he betray the Empire and become a rebel?

It was a question he thought about often, but also one he already had the answer to.

He decided that yes, he could. He’d already become a rebel the day he let Garazeb Orrelios go.

It took him awhile to figure out what he needed to do to become a Fulcrum agent, but once he did he felt... relieved that there was something he could do to begin atoning for what he’d done. Getting his hands on information and passing it along to the rebels was simple enough, but the real challenge was when he encountered them on a patrol. Especially one particular group of Spectres. 

When the rebels had shown up one day, causing their usual ruckus, Kallus had not been quick enough to catch them in the act himself. They escaped with only a few stormtrooper casualties and their signature vandalism graffitied on a wall. Beside the familiar firebird belonging to Sabine Wren was a messy scrawl of aurebesh that, upon closer inspection, read: “BARREL.” The randomness of the word caught him off guard but instinctively he turned and looked around for anything that could relate to it. There was, in fact, a barrel not too far from him that had a sheet of flimsi sticking out from it. Kallus carefully picked it up and smoothed out its wrinkles.

Written upon it was a singular quote: _Shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?_ _\- Z_.

He blinked in confusion. Garazeb obviously wrote this note, if the Z was any indication. And it looked as though he were quoting a poem, something clearly cliche and, if he remembered correctly, written by that same playwright he had mentioned...  _ oh _ . As realization hit him, he felt a warmth blossom in his chest, unfurling slowly like the delicate petals of a rose. He flushed. No, a rose was far too romantic for comparison, and he most certainly was  _ not _ interpreting this as a...  _ romantic _ gesture. Kallus folded the flimsi quickly and discreetly hid it in his sleeve and away from any prying eyes. Perhaps it was Garazeb’s version of a joke, poking fun at the poems Kallus found himself becoming engrossed in more and more. But it didn’t seem like a joke, it felt sincere, like the Lasat had purposefully gone out of his way to find this quote and share it with him.

Was that what friends do?

It wasn’t like Kallus has never had a friend before. In his youth there were plenty of other children his age who socialized with him but he highly doubted that they were sophisticated enough to exchange poetry with one another. And later on he never really had time for those kinds of relationships as his focus was poured into his work. So he’d like to think that adult friendships worked this way.

As soon as the area was thoroughly searched by the stormtroopers, Kallus made his way back to the base and to the privacy of his personal quarters. What was he supposed to do with this note? Was Garazeb expecting a response from him? He paced the room anxiously, dwelling on what he should say or what he should do to respond. He knew he couldn’t just send him a letter, not only was it old fashioned it was also dangerous for the both of them. If either of them were caught... well, Kallus knew the punishment for conspiring with rebels.

And who was he to assume that Garazeb even wanted to exchange messages with him, an ISB agent and one who’d caused him so much pain, what with the genocide on Lasan and his torment of the Spectres. Perhaps he just shouldn’t respond.

But he felt it’d be rude not to.

He let out a frustrated sigh. He’s never been this indecisive before. Kallus pulled the flimsi from his sleeve and looked it over once again. The line was horrendously corny but it still pulled a flutter from within, the typical butterflies in the belly. Now that was an embarrassing realization. Not only was he happy that Garazeb liked him enough to leave him a secret note, but he also found the gesture  _ endearing _ and he was most definitely developing.... unusual  _ feelings _ towards him. Whether it was a product of his overthinking or he was maybe,  _ actually _ infatuated with the Lasat was something Kallus could not determine, but he knew just pacing his room and thinking about it even  _ more _ was not helpful either.

He seated himself on his bed, the flimsi still clutched between his gloved fingers. It wouldn’t do any good to just think about replying to Garazeb. He could do it, just to release those pent up feelings in some way. Something never to be sent. It was dangerous, yes. If anyone should go snooping through his belongings and stumbling upon his unsent notes... But it was such a small thing, and it wasn’t like he was going to leave them laying out in the open.

So it was settled, then.

He found a piece of flimsi in his desk and settled in to start writing his response.

_ Dearest Garazeb, _ he started and immediately crossed out. He nearly burst into hysterical laughter. Why did he write that?

_ Garazeb _ , he tried again, cheeks burning with mortification over his earlier mistake.  _ I appreciated your note.  _ Appreciate? No, that’s too formal. And a terrible understatement.  _ I see you’ve decided to try reading some poetry. I’m surprised you even remembered our conversation on Bahryn _ . For Kallus it was something he often thought about, agonizing over his embarrassing display of passion regarding rebel poets.  _ I recognize this particular quote. It belongs to the playwright I had mentioned before. But I’m sure you already knew that, since you wrote it down for me. _ He crossed out those last few sentences. Why was he so bad at this? He sighed and crumpled up his used sheet of paper and pulled out a new one.

_ Garazeb _ ,

_ I received your note. You’ve caught me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting you to remember our conversation on the ice moon, let alone indulge in my recommendations. The phrase you selected is  _ ~~_ sweet _ ~~ _ quite popular, quoted often even by Imperials. If I recall, it belongs to a piece of work that hasn’t yet been banned by the Empire. I hope you continue to read more poetry. _

~~_ With l _ ~~

~~_ Your friend, _ ~~

_ Sincerely, _

_ A. Kallus _

The letter was short and terrible but Kallus had written out how he felt (or rather how he thought he felt) about the Lasat’s note and was satisfied with himself. He folded up his letter and moved to tuck it beneath the meteorite that still glowed warmly beside his bed. 

-

He had two thoughts about working as a Fulcrum agent. One, it was refreshing. He could feel the layers of guilt he’d built around his heart slowly chipping away with each deed he did that benefited the Rebellion. Years ago, he never imagined himself in this position, acting as a spy to help the rebels. His life was dedicated to and revolved around the Empire. He was a mindless soldier, following orders without question. If only he had these doubts sooner, perhaps then so many innocent lives wouldn’t have been lost. So he was glad he was doing this now, doing the right thing.

Two, it was incredibly hard. Before becoming Fulcrum, he had very little worries. It was mostly paperwork, stop the rebels, remember protocols, et cetera. But now he was hyper aware of every action he took, every decision he made, every little thing that could possibly cast some doubt on him and his ‘integrity’ as an Imperial agent. Years of practice allowed him to hide his worries but it was mentally and emotionally draining. Every second he spent existing as a spy in the Empire was a risk to his life. He knew this and he accepted it. And despite his worries, he was fairly careful. Any information he could get his hands on was small, something that would be useful but not too suspicious if it were to fall into rebel hands. Such as those obvious defectors in Skystrike Academy. They were lucky he intercepted their message before it got too far and out of reach of his protection. It was supposed to be simple: a rescue mission for the rebels, quick and easy.

But of course there had to be some...  _ difficulties _ and Kallus had to make sure they made it out safely. Especially since they’d lost one of them so quickly. Sabine Wren had been wary of him, naturally, he would’ve found it odd if she hadn’t been. When questioned, he felt a multitude of answers rise to the tip of his tongue. This was a chance for him to get a message to Garazeb, to tell him about his note, maybe even give his letter to Sabine, the flimsi folded and buried deep in his pocket.

But all that came out was: “Tell Garazeb Orrelios: we’re even.” 

Sabine had given him a strange look before she nodded and led the defectors down the corridor. As soon as Kallus shut the doors, he walked off and hit his head against the wall. He felt incredibly stupid. Of all the things he chose to say, it had to be that. He lightly banged his head against the wall three more times, with each hit he grumbled: “Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” He kept his forehead pressed against the cool durasteel wall, taking a deep breath to calm himself and releasing it in an exaggerated sigh. He pulled his folded letter from his pocket staring at it with a frown.

Perhaps it was for the best. Who knew if Garazeb would even be interested in reading his silly, half-assed response to his note. He tucked it away again and stood up straight, attempting to regain his composure. There was no use dwelling on it now, he had appearances to keep.

-

Kallus hadn’t thought about the note for a while after Skystrike Academy. He buried himself in his work, keeping his mind focused on finding things to feed to the Rebellion. And there was plenty of paperwork for him to do on Lothal, especially with the sudden rise in rebel activity. But even he needed a break sometimes. His feet carried him out of his office and into the streets of the city. He wasn't a stranger to the fearful looks and distrustful glares from the citizens passing by. All it did was fuel his guilt that festered within him, painful and blistering. But he ignored his feelings as he walked. He knew that in the end, he chose to help the rebels, even if no one else will know that.

Kallus stopped in front of one of the many stalls, browsing the selection of fruits and vegetables with mild interest. Before he could speak to the vendor, however, someone cleared their throat behind him and he turned around. A Rodian stood there nervously, holding something in their hands.

“I was asked to give this to you?” they said unsurely, holding out a folded sheet of flimsi. 

For a moment, he was confused. Who would possibly give him a note this way? But then he remembered. He accepted the folded flimsi quickly, uttering a thanks before turning around and walking back to base. He couldn’t believe he forgot about Garazeb’s note. Who else would send him a suspicious piece of flimsi if not him?

Once he was in the privacy of his own room, just like the first time, he eagerly opened the note.

“‘ _ Follow your inner moonlight _ ,’” he read softly, eyes lingering on the signature ‘Z.’

He remembers this quote. He read it once in one of the banned texts. Based on his interpretation of this quote alone, he understood why the Empire would deem it ‘inappropriate.’ 

The first note Garazeb sent was something he could understand, or he thought he could understand. It had been after Bahryn, after their conversation about rebellion and poets. It was a one time thing. But  _ this _ —this is not what he expected. What was the context for this note? Why did Garazeb feel the need to send this to him now?

Kallus sat on the edge of his bed, studying the note intensely. He understood the words of the poet, or at least had a decent interpretation of it.  _ Follow your inner moonlight _ , words of action to ignite that spark of rebellion. It was simple and beautiful. But what did it  _ really  _ mean, coming from Garazeb? 

He thought back to what happened with Sabine Wren at Skystrike Academy, he remembered what he’d said to her.  _ Tell Garazeb Orrelios: we’re even _ . Did she really tell him that? His embarrassing flub that cost him the chance to give him his letter. It wasn’t even a good letter but his decision haunted him anyway. 

Should he assume that Garazeb had taken his words to heart? Did the Lasat believe that there was enough good in him to risk sending him this note? To inspire him to join their cause? Did he really have that much faith in him? 

The gesture warmed his heart, pushing aside some of the guilt he carried. To know that there was someone out there who believed in him was an amazing feeling. It made him feel wanted, made him feel like all the work he was doing as Fulcrum really, truly mattered. Kallus felt the corners of his mouth lift into a subtle smile as he held the note close to his heart.

-

He didn’t know why he was expecting another note from Garazeb after he revealed himself as Fulcrum to Ezra Bridger and Kanan Jarrus. Perhaps he was hoping for his response after his previous message. How would he react knowing that all this time he’d been Fulcrum? Would it be positive? Negative? It didn’t matter anymore as Kallus hadn’t received anything new from him since then.

He was getting distracted. His thoughts were consumed with Garazeb and it was... infuriating how much this Lasat affected him. Any time he had a moment to himself he found that he was agonizing over what Garazeb felt about him, about what he thought about Kallus’s Fulcrum reveal. Was he glad that was now on their side? Was he upset that he hadn’t tried to tell him sooner? Or did he not care at all? These questions ate at him every day since he helped Bridger and Jarrus. It was annoying—no,  _ frustrating _ that he didn’t have any answers to these thoughts. It was like being unable to scratch a particular itch: unsatisfying and irritating.

Kallus couldn’t let this interrupt his duties, however. So he pushed all of his feelings into his mental cabinet, filing them away for a later time. Tuning back into reality, he led his squad of troopers out of their shuttle and into the trade port they stopped at. They were there to pick up a special shipment of weapons that hopefully wouldn’t be there when they arrived. Especially since he went through the trouble of leaking the information to the Rebellion. They marched towards the designated hangar, the doors opening so slowly that Kallus’s eye began to twitch impatiently. Once they could get through, Kallus headed straight for the crate sitting before them, seemingly unopened. Lifting the lid to inspect its contents, he saw that the container was empty and he kept a stoic expression despite his relief.

“The shipment has been stolen!” he reported to the stormtroopers. “Search the area! The thieves can’t have gone far.”

The group dispersed and Kallus was left alone in the hangar with his blaster drawn. He’d lingered a moment, just to see where the rebels had actually gone so he could keep his troops away. His eyes browsed the area, scanning intensely a moment before locking in on a familiar starbird painted on a wall. He rushed over to the symbol and noted the wet sheen of the paint. It was recent. He ran down the hallway, turning left and right into a fleshy wall. He nearly fell backwards when suddenly he was embraced by a pair of furry, muscled arms.

“Karabast!” a familiar, deep voice exclaimed. “That was a close one.”

Kallus turned his head upward and became face to face with one Garazeb Orrelios. They were close. So very close. Their noses were almost touching and their  _ lips _ — “I- What are you doing here?” he hissed in alarm.

The Lasat’s ears flattened just a little and one brow quirked upwards. “Gee, it’s good to see you, too, Agent,” he said with blatant sarcasm.

“Stormtroopers will come by this area any minute, Garazeb. You can’t be here when they do.”

“I know, I know,” he sighed. “I just... wanted to see you.”

Kallus blinked.  _ Oh _ . He wasn’t aware his heart was capable of gymnastics. Garazeb finally released him, his incredibly  _ thick _ arm moving to rub the back of his neck sheepishly, ears twitching in such an endearing way that made him want to reach out and touch them. Kallus decided that he was thinking too much.

“I have... I heard that yer Fulcrum now and I... I have a lot I want to say, but I know there’s no time so I... just, here-” the Lasat stuck a hand into the pocket of his suit and pulled out a crumpled up piece of flimsi and held it out to him. “Read this, if you want to. I’m not much of a writer but... I wanted to-”

Voices down the corridor interrupted him and they both turned quickly.

“Karabast,” Garazeb swore, backing away. “Just read my note, alright? You can tell me what you think about it next time we see each other.”

Before Kallus could even say anything in response, the Lasat was running off in the direction of what he assumed was the Ghost’s location. The sound of impending footsteps prevented him from dwelling on his many,  _ many _ thoughts and he ran the opposite way to keep the stormtroopers from going down that corridor.

“Troopers! This way!”

-

Kallus didn’t get the chance to read the note for quite a few hours. He was quickly distracted with half-assed reports and passive aggressive meetings with Grand Admiral Thrawn regarding the result of their mission. By the end of it all, he was so exhausted that he nearly passed out the moment his head touched his pillow. But as he laid down, he heard a dull crunch normally made by flimsi being crumpled. The sound woke him up a little and he dug through his pockets, fishing out the balled up note. Kallus sat up immediately, flimsi sitting in his hand expectantly.

Garazeb’s letter that he risked handing to him in person. His heart hammered in his chest like the rhythm of blaster fire on the battlefield. He gingerly took both of his hands and pulled at the note, trying his best not to rip it as it opened. Slowly, the familiar scrawl of aurebesh was revealed among the creases of the flimsi, the hidden gems among the rock.

_ Kallus _ , the note started.

_ Some flowers are red, _

_ Others are blue, _

_ I just wanted to say _

_ That I’m proud of you. _

_ I’m sorry, that was terrible. I’m not a very good poet, but I wanted to tell you that I’m glad you decided to join us. Being a Fulcrum agent is... a dangerous job, the kind that gets you killed. But I have hope that you’ll make it through this. You’re made of tough stuff, agent. You’re smart and resilient and a damn good warrior. Never extinguish that spark. _

_ Your friend, _

_ Garazeb Orrelios _

_ P.S. I know I didn’t say this before, but you can call me Zeb. Since we’re friends now :) _

_ P.P.S. Turn the flimsi around. _

Kallus noted the little arrow at the bottom of the page that indicated he should turn the flimsi over. There was a single quote on the page: “We’re all golden sunflowers inside.” He knew this quote. It was written by the same poet who said “Follow your inner moonlight.” Beneath the quote was a small flower painted yellow and brown. It wasn’t a particularly well drawn flower, but it was endearing and it pulled at Kallus’s heart strings. He couldn’t hide the fondness in his expression.

He clutched the letter close to his chest and sank to rest on his side. There was no denying it, it was plain as day that he was completely and utterly in love with Gar—with Zeb, just Zeb. Of all the poetry he’s read, none of them could compare to the way Zeb’s natural words made him melt, none of them could make him hide a smile behind his hand the way Zeb’s adorable poem did, none of them made him flustered and yearning the way Zeb’s praise did. This simple, silly letter had him blushing from the tips of his ears down to the back of his neck like a teenager. He was too old for this kind of infatuation, he told himself. He was too old to be having feelings this way.

But  _ oh _ , how he wanted to be the poet’s dalliance, how he desired to be the subject gazed upon by the writer’s eye, how he yearned to be painted with prose and abstract juxtapositions. Zeb may claim he was no poet but his stylus had already written sonnets into his heart and ballads into his soul. Kallus was the canvas and his newfound love the muse. 

So  _ this _ was why Zeb gave him his letter in person. The letter was more intimate, too personalized to be something he could hide in a box somewhere. Kallus thought back to their interaction in the hallway.  _ I wanted to see you _ . Those words echoed in his mind like a mantra. He couldn’t stop thinking about it. He couldn’t stop thinking in general. He was giddy with affection, like the naive heroine of a painfully corny holodrama. He pinched his own cheeks to cease his ridiculous smiling and took a deep breath to still his beating heart. He needed to... to compose himself. He was getting uncharacteristically overwhelmed by his emotions.  _ Karabast _ , what was he thinking? 

No,  _ why _ was he thinking? He should just stop that entirely. The less thoughts he had, the better. There was no need for yearning, no need for wondering and pondering and dwelling on all things related to Garazeb Orrelios. He was still Fulcrum, still an agent of deception whose sole duty was to find information and give it away like a delivery boy of rebellion. He didn’t have time to have...  _ feelings _ . At least not now.

When all of this was over, however...

His train of thought left him deflating just a bit. It was a topic he’d thought of before, something he dwelled on occasionally but not often. Kallus didn’t believe there’d be an “after” for him. He assumed that he’d most likely die during his faux service to the Empire, or perhaps he’d get caught by the Grand Admiral and his seemingly omniscient mind then executed for his betrayal. They were dark thoughts and sometimes intrusive ones, but they grounded him, reminding him of the reality of his situation. Spies don’t make history. They’re disposed of, they become liabilities. 

Kallus rolled over onto his back and shielded his eyes from the light. Zeb had been hopeful, had been so sure that they would see each other again. What if he was wrong? Before Thrawn, that outcome seemed like a possibility, but now it felt outright impossible. 

He clenched his hand into a fist, causing the letter on his chest to crumple a little more. No matter what happened to him in the future, he would continue his duty as Fulcrum. Just because he had doubts, it didn’t mean he would just give up. If anything, his pessimistic thoughts fueled his determination to help the rebels. If he was going to die doing this, he might as well die doing the right thing.

-

It didn’t occur to him that maybe he wouldn’t die. He didn’t think he’d be allowed an opportunity to get out of this. His former nemesis “Jabba the Hutt,” appeared to him one day and offered to help him escape. It was no longer expected of him to play the part of Fulcrum. Anything he decides to do now is at his own risk.

-

He took the risk.

-

If he had a credit for every time he’d used and betrayed a fellow officer who’d looked up to him and respected him in order to continue spying for the Rebellion he’d have exactly one credit. It may not be a lot but one was enough to fuel the guilt that weighed heavy in his chest like a stone dragging him to the bottom of the ocean. He was flying a wingless ship and it was crashing slowly but inevitably. Kallus could see the climax rising in the east. He threw away his chance at a definite ending and the rest was now probability. A tune he must play by ear, or as best as he can while tone-deaf.

Karabast. The word had wormed its way into his mental vocabulary.  _ Karabast _ .

He was skating and the Grand Admiral was holding the pick over the ice. Thrawn knew. He had to have known it was Kallus this whole time. There was no deceiving him.

An hour before Konstantine and Pryce were called away for a private meeting with Thrawn, Kallus sat on his bed and read Zeb’s letter over and over again.

-

He wasn’t a poet. For all the prose he read, he never wrote any himself. Poetry lied in the list of things he could enjoy rather than the list of things he could see himself partaking in. But he could do it, if he really wanted to. If the right inspiration struck.

And damn if this wasn’t poetry in the living.

Dazzling blazes of light like the dark disco of death pummeling the glimmering starships into ashen space dust. The soundless symphony of explosions, the wordless cries as lives are torn into the throes of merciless slaughter deafen his ears. The flickering glow against icy blue skin reflecting in the cruel blood red gaze of their defiler. No mercy, no mercy.

What could Kallus do, beaten bloody and bruised and forced to his knees, forced to watch all his efforts turn to blood and dust? What hope could he have when life after life is taken? Another spark being extinguished. He cannot look away. He is mesmerized by the murder and the death and the burning brightness of explosions that consume Commander Sato’s ship. 

He was no poet, but he could write this a tragedy for the ages. He could stain the pages with the ink of his guilt and use his blame as his signature. Every character has a fatal flaw and his was being played in front of him like a film. Rewound and paused and fast forwarded. What kind of cruel punishment was this? To let him live to witness the deaths of those who deserve more life than he does.

He stopped his thoughts. What was this self pity? Where was the Kallus who knew the risks and decided to take them if it meant just one more victory for the rebels? Where was Kallus who learned to turn his back on the Empire and became Fulcrum? Where was the Kallus who found his heart being carried and nurtured in the gentle hands of Garazeb Orrelios? He would not let himself believe that it all ends like this. His resolve would be strong and the Rebellion stronger. If there was one thing he learned on that ice moon it was that hope was a powerful weapon and can be utilized against even the most evil of entities.

He would not die like this.

-

Thank the Force for Hera Syndulla. Despite his internal pep talk from before, he had started to run low on hope the moment he stepped foot into that escape pod (funny how his reign as Fulcrum ended the same way it all began: in an escape pod.) He was fortunate that his signal reached the Ghost and he was rescued not even a moment later. He slumped against his seat, ribs aching, eye throbbing. Overall, he was relieved. Kallus made the climb out of the pod and into the hangar of the ship. He was painfully aware that he wasn’t alone. He was met with a room of distrustful and wary glares of rebels who had just lost their biggest fight against the Empire yet. He did not blame them. Up until this moment he was Fulcrum, but he had been Agent Kallus first. His remorse prodded him, only to be swatted by his determination to get up and find Zeb.

He limped gingerly towards the ladder, ignoring the stares as he grabbed onto it, climbing slowly but steadily. Each step he ascended stung like salt on a wound. But he did not stop. He stumbled onto the second level, taking a moment to just lean against the wall. He could hear him, hear Zeb, through the doors of the cockpit. He took only two long strides and he was there, right behind him as they jumped into hyperspace. 

Kallus breathed a sigh of relief. It was done, it was over. Not the Rebellion, of course, but his duty as Fulcrum. There was no more need for spying, no more need for sneaking around. He was done. He turned to look at Zeb who was looking back at him and... his world shifted just slightly.

He was here, with the very reason he’d rebelled to begin with. It was because of Garazeb Orrelios that his doubts about the Empire had been brought to the surface. If he could do even basic math he’d think that perhaps love can sometimes equal hope. And yes, he was most definitely in love.

Zeb broke into a grin and Kallus couldn’t help but return it with unabashed joy. The Lasat stepped toward him but was stopped by Syndulla who pulled him aside to discuss their next plans. Kallus decided to step out then, too exhausted to stand around waiting for him. He needed some bacta, maybe even some ice, things that he would get once he was sure everyone else got some first. Once he was outside of the cockpit, he leaned against the wall, closing his eyes. He was light headed, tired, and hovering over the edge of a concussion.

A few moments later, Jarr—Kanan was in front of him and he felt the urge to express his gratitude. He called out to him before he disappeared into the cockpit. “Thank you,” he said sincerely, biting back the exhaustion in his voice. “For taking me in.”

The Jedi put a firm hand on his shoulder without hesitation. “Thank you for risking...  _ everything _ .”

It was not the response he was expecting but it was one he was desperately needing to hear. He nodded to Kanan, despite his lack of sight, but the Jedi seemed to understand anyway as he smiled in reassurance and left. Kallus wasn’t alone for long as soon Zeb was walking toward him, ears downturned with what he assumed was concern. The Lasat stopped in front of him, hands held stiffly at his sides.

“Kallus,” he started, voice soft and gravelly like the shifting of sand on the shore. “You made it.”

“It would certainly seem that way,” he agreed, the corner of his mouth twitching.

The two of them stood there for a quiet moment, just smiling stupidly at one another. Then a hand came up to push back the stray hairs that had fallen into his face only for it to fall back again.

“Yer a right mess,” Zeb commented. “They got you good, didn’t they?”

A large finger brushed against his cheek and Kallus instinctively flinched away. That got him a frown and wide, worried eyes. “If it’s alright with you... I’d like to lie down somewhere.”

Zeb’s expression softened and he gently guided him to a room and encouraged him to sit down on the bottom bunk. The Lasat fished around his drawers for some medical supplies, giving a triumphant aha! once some was found. Zeb opened the bacta and gingerly applied it to the wounds on his face, prodding his eye and brushing his thumb across his lips. Kallus would have been a puddle of mush from this tender nurturing alone if he were in the right state of mind. But coherent thoughts were unavailable to him at the moment as he struggled to keep himself awake.

“You’ll have to take your armor off,” Zeb told him. “And I saw you holding yer side earlier, I’ll have to check there, too.”

Obediently, he removed his armor and let Zeb place it on the floor. Kallus removed his belt then grabbed the hem of his shirt to pull it over his head. He didn’t get very far, however, as the pain in his side made him wince and he paused just above his chest.

“That’s good enough, Kallus,” Zeb said gently. “I can see you’ve got some bruisin’. That’s something you’ll have to get checked out at rebel command.”

“Does that mean I can put my shirt down?”

“Yeah,” the Lasat chuckled.

Kallus sighed as he lowered the garment and he sat there, twiddling his thumbs. “Alexsandr,” he said. At the confused look he received, he realized he forgot to elaborate. “You can call me that. It’s my first name. Or Alex. I thought it would only be fair since... you know...”

“Alex,” Zeb tried with a growing smile. 

He nearly swooned. “Zeb.”

The Lasat’s smile evolved into a grin and he took Kallus’s smaller human hands into his larger claws. “I know this isn’t the best time to ask, but did you read my letter?”

Kallus chuckled only to wince slightly at the sting in his side. “Yes, I did read it,” he replied. “It was perfect.”

He’d kept that letter with him always. In fact it was still sitting in his pocket at that very moment. Unfortunately, he’d lost all his previous notes, including the first letter he’d written, but he didn’t need them anymore.

“Good,” Zeb breathed. “Do you... remember that part where I called us ‘friends?’”

He did remember it. It was a word he found himself thinking about over and over, trying to analyze if that was what he truly meant. Kallus nodded. “Yes?”

“Disregard that,” the Lasat said. Zeb picked up the folded piece of flimsi that Kallus just realized had been sitting on the desk the entire time. The item was placed into his open palm and Zeb folded his fingers over it for safekeeping. “A poem. To express what I mean.”

Kallus brushed his thumb over the smooth flimsi, staring at it for a moment before shaking his head. “I think I already know what you mean.”

Before anymore words could be said, he surged forward, cupping Zeb’s bearded cheeks and pressing their lips together almost desperately, his feelings passionate and on display. It didn’t take long for Zeb to reciprocate the gesture, one hand pulling him closer by the neck and the other brushing against his hip. When they pulled away, they kept their foreheads touching, their breaths mingling.

“So was my interpretation correct?” Kallus asked, smiling as he gazed into those green eyes.

Zeb pressed a chaste kiss to his grin. “It was a lucky guess.”

-

_ Of everything I have seen, _

_ it’s you I want to go on seeing: _

_ of everything I’ve touched, _

_ it’s your flesh I want to go on touching. _

_ I love your orange laughter. _

_ I am moved by the sight of you sleeping. _

_ What am I to do, love, loved one? _

_ I don’t know how others love _

_ or how people loved in the past. _

_ I live, watching you, loving you. _

_ Being in love is my nature. _

**Author's Note:**

> All poems/poets mentioned:  
> 1\. To a Wreath of Snow by Emile Bronte  
> 2\. Take, O Take Those Lips Away by William Shakespeare  
> 3\. Sonnet 18 by William Shakespeare  
> 4\. Allen Ginsberg quote: "Follow your inner moonlight."  
> 5\. Sunflower Sutra by Allen Ginsberg  
> 6\. Amor by Pablo Neruda


End file.
